


Gangs of New York

by RamercyGriff



Category: The Warriors (1979)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22951255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RamercyGriff/pseuds/RamercyGriff
Summary: A glance at certain events leading up to Cyrus' conclave.
Kudos: 5





	Gangs of New York

He was not Jim Hinton, and he was sure wasn’t James. He was Rembrandt.

That wasn’t a name he had just been given. It was the name he had earned through his art. To his true family- Swan and Vermin and Cochise and Snow and even Ajax- it was the only name he had, the name Cleon had recognized him by upon his initiation, when he’d earned his place in the gang by rumbling with a crowd of vagrants with his bare hands. It fitted and felt far more real to him than “James Hinton” ever had.

But sitting across from the desk looking into Wallie-the-friendly-social-worker’s perspiring face, Rembrandt didn’t much see the point in pressing the issue.

“Uh. Yes. Right, James. Now I’m going to ask you a couple questions about your home life. Um. And. I just need you to answer them as honestly as possible. And remember, nothing leaves this room.”

Rembrandt, who knew the drill, inclined his head by a tiny fraction and made sort of a noise. Same old crap. Uh, does your mother drink? Uh, do you think she should cut down on drinking? Uh, does she get annoyed if you suggest she cut down? Rembrandt shook his head through all of them just to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Wallie’s voice always seemed quavery and nervous. Rembrandt had trouble believing he warranted that level of bugged-outness, not even if he were in full colors. He wasn’t terribly intimidating. Maybe five-nine on a good day, scrawny and hunched enough that he seemed shorter. Long lashes, full lips, and soft eyes didn’t make him more intimidating, though they drew jeers along the line of “pretty boy” from a certain category of bopper (like the Dingoes, a gang seemingly consisting entirely of well-groomed bodybuilders in leather chaps).

“Uh. Yes. Well. Just one more thing. It seems a few of your teachers have reported you not turning up for class.”

Rembrandt mumbled something about being sick lately.

“Uh-huh. Well, you should know that spotty attendance can seriously damage your school record, James. I, uh, thought it was still your, ah, your intention to go to art school. I’m afraid what you get out of education depends on what you put into it.”

Rembrandt made no verbal response and didn’t meet Wallie’s gaze. Without prompting, Wallie’s lecture died in the womb. Rembrandt-who-was-not-James waited out the cursory farewell until he was dismissed.

He managed to jump the turnstile at the station without attracting attention and settled in for the ride home. On the way, he fished his notebook out of his backpack. The lined pages inside were covered in images of Greek hoplites, Roman legionaries, various other warriors from down through history. He had never shown any of it to anybody, not even his true family. There were things you couldn’t show to anyone, not even family. He had wound up showing one or two bits to a girl in his art class, against better judgment, mostly because she always seemed to want to talk to him about his drawings.

Sometimes he wondered if it was her way of coming on to him. The idea should have excited him- he was the only one in the gang with no stories to share about that particular kind of conquest- but somehow it just didn’t.

Rembrandt couldn’t work up an interest in drawing at the moment, so he grabbed his book instead. He must have read through it a dozen times by no. Dog-eared and yellow-paged, it had been stolen from a library so long ago that he doubted they ever expected it back. Ever since Ash had shown him the cheap comic version, the story had captivated Rembrandt enough that he knew he had to take the book. He decided to start again on the first page…

_“The King of Persia had two sons: the elder was Artaxerxes, and the younger Cyrus.… Now when the King was dead, the elder Artaxerxes was established in the kingdom, and Tissaphernes brought slanderous accusations against Cyrus before his brother the new king of harboring designs against him… ”_

The Rogues of Hell’s Kitchen weren’t the biggest outfit. They didn’t have strength, or great numbers, or even conviction really. But under Luther’s leadership they were still dreaded. The average bopper could smash your store windows and demand you pay protection, get fighting drunk or strung out on Flash, steal your car, knife you in the gut if they didn’t like your tone… but at the end of the day they all wanted some kind of order. Luther reveled in chaos. Profit and Protection weren’t as important to him as the fleeting sadistic thrill of watching others in pain. He had a mind that could see the humorous side of watching a maternity ward burn down. 

Currently, Luther was sitting on the hard flat seat of the dimly-lit interrogation room of the -lit New York PD’s 10th Precinct House. A surly looking detective- Doyle, or something- was leaning against the wall and glowering at him from across the room. A square-faced black man with an impassive face and an impeccable suit sat directly across from him. 

Luther, who thought he could sense the shape of things, was hunched over insolently in his seat, his eyes peeking out from pale caves under his mass of curly hair. His lips were turned up at the sides, pulling his entire sallow face away from his pointed chin with them. For most people this might be recognizable as a smile; for Luther, it felt more like he was about to lunge for someone’s throat. 

“You understand the terms of our agreement.” The man sitting across from the table did not phrase this sentence in the form of a question. 

Luther raised his pale face and affected what he thought was an innocent and accommodating tone. He had a raspy, creaky voice. “Suuuure, man. I get it. This Cyrus guy, he’s a dangerous dude. I keep an eye on him for you.” 

The man across the table did not change his expression. “For now. Depending on what you tell us, we may require something more of you. You report to me by phone, with the number we gave you. You will not see me again. As far as anyone else is concerned, you never saw me at all. In exchange I see to it that the police give your case a certain amount of discretion.” Doyle, still leaning against his wall, looked livid. 

Luther didn’t give any response to indicate he understood the meaning of “your case”. He tilted his head and attempted to look as innocent as he possibly could, not a mean feat for someone most would instinctually cross multiple streets to avoid. 

The impassive-faced man seemed satisfied with that. He inclined his head towards Doyle, who stomped across the room, hoisted Luther to his feet by the collar- the smirk became a grimace- and stomped out of the room. The impassive-faced man was left alone for a moment with his thoughts. 

Isaac Rivera, ADA, who had once gone by the name Brains, had worked hard to get to where he was today. Clawed his way out of poverty on Delancey Street, alongside his brother Ismael. While Ismael was content to be president of a band of street rats, lounging on a throne in a child’s clubhouse, Isaac had chosen to set his sights higher. Now he had money, power, and respect Ismael could only dream of. The only thing that kept him up at night was the worry Ismael- who still insisted on using the absurd nickname of “Cyrus”- would someday grow jealous of his success. Rumblings on the streets sometimes reached Isaac’s ear. 

The President of the Riffs, now enjoying a new throne in Gramercy, spoke and the Gangs of New York stood at attention. He spoke about The Man in City Hall, some shadowy figure for whom the NYPD and the Mob were just interchangeable masks, a figure who was truly the enemy of all the gangs if only they would stop fighting each other long enough to notice. 

Isaac Rivera heard these rumblings and couldn’t help but take an interest. Now he had his pawn, the little psycho, dancing at the end of a string. Luther would determine how serious Ismael/Cyrus’ rantings were taken. A little bit of unorthodox polling- any politician would understand. And if it became necessary, he had someone close at hand to pull a trigger and stop Cyrus dead. Mama wouldn’t have approved- both brothers had promised they’d look after each other- but there was a bigger picture to think about. Every homoerotically-dressed band of hoodlums in the city going about their daily business was bad enough. All of them united under one leader would prove… problematic. 

_“Cyrus’ way was such that all who came to him from the king’s court became better friends to him than to the king. Nor did he neglect the barbarians in his service, but trained them as capable warriors and devoted adherents of himself. And so he gathered forces from among the Greeks with the utmost secrecy, so that he might take the king as far as might be at unawares…”_

Masai had served as War-Counselor to Cyrus for years now, and in a world where gangs could rise to prominence and fall into obscurity within weeks this was a most impressive achievement. Still, lthough he felt nothing but loyalty and admiration for the Riffs’ Presidente, he knew he would never fully understand him. 

“We need to spread the word. Reach out into every corner, cross every border, and convince.” Cyrus had a clear, booming, staccato voice that most preachers would envy. Masai had strength, and the skill of intimidation, but the Warlord’s gift with words made him vaguely uneasy. It was a power he didn’t fully understand. He pulled the right words out of thin air, and somehow magicked insane propositions into complete certainties. 

Masai remained silent and listened, following Cyrus as he paced through the Riff’s base. 

“Convey our message. Our motive. It must be with respect, not force, that they accept our invitation. As this word spreads, and possibility spreads to the minds of all the city’s gangs, then this message, this wisdom, will begin to make sense. There’s no other way. This is our destiny. And this is our will.” 

Masai, a terrifying presence to all who knew him, couldn’t help but bob his head nervously. 

“Now go let all the gangs know about this truce! Forget no one under our network. Boppers, Hurricanes, Huns, Punks, ACs- tell them all. Bring them to van Cortlandt Park. No more than 9 delegates may attend, and on this day I want no action. No soldiers shall carry a shank, a bat, a brick, a stick… or a gun.” 

The latter went without saying, of course. For daylight people, if someone troubled you, you fetched a cop with a gun and that cop would take care of it. Among the armies of the night, differences were settled with the strength of your own arms, and your sworn brothers’. Guns were the great equalizer; they didn’t take the same level of skill needed to swing a bat, didn’t come with the same risk of bloodying your knuckles. Exceptions might be made for women, or cripples, but for anyone else, bringing a gun to a rumble was the epitome of bad taste. Worse, it was cowardly. Weak. 

“Now go, Masai, and let our troops know what must be done.” 

Masai inclined his head and set out. 

Cyrus, who had long ago cast aside the name Ismael Rivera, was left alone with his thoughts for a moment. He gathered his thoughts for a moment about how he would address the conclave. The right words had to be chosen with care, to convince so many that his dream was possible. 

He imagined himself standing atop the playground with the hundreds of listeners spread around him. Playground, ha. There was something in the Bible about putting aside the things of children. The armies of the night must not be familiar with that passage. They made their living in abandoned amusement parks, raided candy stores, drove looted school buses. Baseball, roller skates, burned out playgrounds and broken dolls. There was supposed to be a point in childhood where you felt safety, but most boppers had never experienced it. For most of them, that step had been missed; they had all learned that life was a daily fight, and now believed it always would be, and as they’d grown up too fast they still hadn’t quite left childhood behind. 

They could be more than that, Cyrus knew. They didn’t have to be children fighting over playgrounds. They outnumbered the police three to one, maybe five to one. Put aside the feuds and the grief, and with the right leader the gangs could own this town. 

_“Cyrus sent orders to the commandants of the garrisons of the cities he held, bidding them to get together as large an army as they were each able… and among his new armies was a Spartan exile who was called Clearchus. Cyrus admired this man, and made him a present of ten thousand drains…”_

On the night Rembrandt and Snow and Fox journeyed to Pelham Trainyards to take the Warriors all-city, an ambassador from the Riffs arrived at Astroland. Because he came in neutral colors- black shirt tucked into jeans- Cleon knew he did not come as a soldier. This would have been a token of disrespect. To this warlike breed, injuries to the body had to be borne without so much as a gritted jaw, but injuries to pride had to be avenged. Honor demanded it. 

Cleon received the ambassador into the hangout to hear his message. Ajax was kept away from the conversation, left glaring at the wall while he pumped weights. Cleon was wary of the big lummox. He had not been openly defiant yet, but Ajax longed constantly for someone to fight or rut with, and grew sullen when commanded to behave. 

Vermin was also kept out, and went back to his usual place playing pinball. Cleon counted Vermin as his oldest friend- they had been exiled from the Destroyers together, had founded the Warriors together, had fought alongside each other more times than he remembered. Nonetheless, Vermin was far too laidback, too jocular. He did not have the ambition Cleon had, to see his new gang taken all-city. His easygoing presence made him popular among newbloods, but he could not muster the seriousness this opportunity required. 

And so instead it was Swan the War-Chief who stood beside Cleon as they heard the message. Swan listened on, arms crossed over bare, muscled chest, staring at the ambassador with his usual quiet intensity. 

The messenger declined any food or drink, but hurried to deliver his missives. “Cyrus is callin’ a conclave. Every gang on our network sends nine reps to van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx, Thursday.”

“Ranger turf,” Swan points out. 

“Rangers lettin’ Cyrus use it. Everybody in attendance comes under general truce. Nobody brings no weapons. No bricks or bats or nothin’. Nine reps, all comin’ unarmed. Nine from every gang in the city’s gonna be there. Cyrus has somethin’ goin’ down he wants everybody in on.” 

It sounded crazy to Swan. It definitely would be the first time a gang had been lured somewhere under false pretenses for an ambush. Still, it was hard to believe that anybody would ever invoke Cyrus’ name for such a cheap tactic. If word ever got out- and it would- the full force of the biggest gang in New York City would be brought down on the offender. 

The messenger, his job done, abruptly rose to leave. Hitting every gang in the city, even just the ones on the Riffs’ network, would be a big job. 

“Everyone gonna be there,” the messenger repeated. “Boppers. Hurricanes. Panzers. Rangers, ‘bulls, Punks, Furies, Queens Runners, Chinatown, the Bronx. Already been to see the Mothers and Gladiators and Saracens and Jones Boys too. Don’t bother listenin’ to the radio. We’ll send someone personally by the day of, let you know if it’s still on.” And with that, he was gone. More invitations to deliver, probably. 

Cleon’s face, always stern and stony and mostly hidden in his leopard-print keffiyeh, hid his surprise. Saracens and Jones Street Boys had fought over Bensonhurst for as long as anyone could remember. Saracens were poor and rough and Sicilian working-class and hungry, JSBs were rich and smooth and privileged and just in it for the thrill. Cleon wouldn’t have believed any force on Earth could make them agree to a truce for even a night. 

More to the point, this was what he was waiting for. Scopes’ Pelham Trainyard business was a big deal. It would make the Warriors known throughout the city. But getting a hand-delivered invitation from the Riffs proved they were on Cyrus’ network. That was a big step. Huge. Made Pelham look like peanuts. Probably Edge or Scopes had put in a good word for the Warriors. 

Swan was apprehensive. “Sounds like it could be a trap. Up there in the Bronx… we’ve never even been. We go up there unarmed, good chance we get japped.” 

Cleon shook his head. “Ain’t nobody stupid enough to try crossin’ Cyrus and the Riffs that way.” 

“Fuck Cyrus,” Ajax put in, raising his voice enough to carry over to them. Cleon elected to ignore him. He had never met Cyrus, but the rumors about him had mutated into legends. He was the magic man. The visionary. He had built up the biggest gang in the entire city single-handed. Police couldn’t touch him, nobody dared disrespect him. He was a madman, he was a genius, he was a master strategist and he was a prophet. 

“We gotta be there,” Cleon said. “This is bigger than goin’ all-city. If we get in with the Riffs, we could go from runnin’ Coney to rulin’ all Brooklyn. Not takin’ any shit from nobody. It could put us on the map.” 

“Fuck, boss. Goin’ all Julius Caesar on us.” 

Swan looked at Vermin, silent glare momentarily disrupted. 

“Yeah, I read a book once. Don’t be so shocked.” 

Cleon spoke up again: “Get the others. Let me know when Fox and Cowboy get back with the junior. We’re choosin’ our nine tonight.” 

_“The Persian King had failed time and again to hinder the passage of Cyrus’ army, and Cyrus himself believed the king had abandoned any thought of offering battle. And Cyrus began to advance with less than his full caution…”_

“Alright. It’s still on. And we’re going. Cyrus sent an emissary this afternoon to make sure. Cyrus don’t want anybody packed, and he don’t want anybody flexing any muscle. So I gave him my word that the Warriors would uphold the truce.”

Cleon paused a moment. Breathed in. 

“Now… everybody says Cyrus is the one and only. I think we’d better go have a look ourselves.”

**Author's Note:**

> Uses the canon of the movie and video game, with maybe a couple details from the original Yurick novel. 
> 
> On names: Rembrandt is "James Hinton". "Hinton" is the name of the artist-character in Yurick's book; his older brother Alonso implies that Hinton's name is "Jim". So that's what I went with. I acknowledge it doesn't sound very Hispanic (for some reason when I started I thought Rembrandt was played by a black actor). Oh, well. 
> 
> If I'd carried on with this pattern that would make Cleon's real name Arnold and Cochise's Dewey. I couldn't think of an opening to say so, though. 
> 
> Cyrus is based on the book character Ismael Rivera, so I figured I'd just make that his real name. The character of Isaac is wholly original (well, technically he's filling in for Artaxerxes II in "Anabasis"). I debated what to name him for awhile. I considered Artie (sounds like Artaxerxes), but decided to settle for the Biblical precedent of Isaac and Ishmael.


End file.
